Hey Mrs. President …

Can I call you Mrs?

Can I call you Mrs?

Let’s start with this: I’m a feminist. I’ve never had a problem identifying as one — to me it’s as basic as not skipping breakfast. Equal rights. Equal pay. Don’t stare at my boobs while I’m presenting my ideas. Of course. And I’ve never seen anything dichotomous in being a feminist who also wants to shave her pits, obsess about shoes, squeeze my husband’s hand when I’m scared at the movies. “Do I contradict myself? I am vast. I contain multitudes.” (Shout out to Walt Whitman. The ultimate feminist. JK.)

I also had no problem taking my husband’s name. And putting a “Mrs.” in the front. So much so that it’s my social media handle. Before, I always went by Ms., thinking that no one needed to know whether or not I was married — just like no one needs to know when you’re a dude. And when I was first married, I kept my last name. I hyphenated in practice but never made a legal change.

With my second marriage, though, I wanted to do things differently. (An obvious move, given how it turned out the first time, no?) I didn’t see so much at stake with “keeping my name.” For starters, this was the name my dad (i.e. another dude) gave me. There was nothing about it that I chose, or that came from the women in my family. So swapping it seemed like no big deal — and why not do something cool for the man who was to become my equal partner? I was already coming into the marriage with a child and a set up that positioned him as an outsider (established bedtime rituals, 2 chairs at our kitchen table, the code words of a 5 year mother + son solo team), I loved the idea of a gesture that was something I’d never done before, a leap of faith that showed my new hsuband and the world that, in the words of those other great poets, the Pointer Sisters, “we are family.”

And I could do this, I could be Mrs. Solomon, because we’ve come so far, right? I mean there was irony in it. I’m liberal. I’m a strong woman. It was 2009, not the 50s. One look at me, one word out of my mouth and you know I love being a wife but I’d never have anything short of a true partnership in a marriage. I bought a sweatshirt that says “wifey” too — because I love being married to this guy and I think it’s hilarious. I’m no one’s wifey, and no one expects me to be that.

It was a certain security in who I am and where we are in the world that’s put me in a place where I can celebrate “missusdom” with a wink — and without fear.

I can call myself Mrs. Solomon, wear a sweatshirt that says “wifey,” bring my husband breakfast in bed (albeit cereal) all without ever feeling like I compromise anything about myself, how I’m perceived, and certainly not about overarching stereotypes in the world or progress.

And then Trump and his supporters came along. I’m so sheltered I realize, living in Brookline, MA bluest of blue neighborhoods. Watching the terrifying progression of this presidential fight has made that even more abundantly clear. The sheer number of people who think it’s ok for a contender to lead the free world to call out Carly Fiorina’s looks, to position Ted Cruz’s wife in a beauty contest against his own, to talk about a reporter’s menstrual bleeding — has rattled me to the core.

And then, on top of it, the sheer number of people, including women, including his wife, to write off Trump’s sexual assault braggadocio as “locker room talk.” That was the final blow to my fearlessness. No matter what the outcome of this election, these hordes of people are out there. I’ve taken for granted that I could call myself “Mrs. Solomon” because I want to, serve my husband breakfast because I want to, wear my Wifey sweatshirt because I want to — because I felt comfy in the world. Too comfy.

This election has been a huge wakeup call.

There is a world of people out there who believe I’m less than my husband because I’m a woman. Who believe I should take his name, abandon mine, serve him, and laugh it off were he to assault women in his own locker room moment. A world of people who think it’s ok both to grab my pussy and to take away my reproductive rights. A world of people who read these choices not as ironic, and warm, and playful, but as complicit agreement about my place relative to his, in our home and in the world.

I am not safe, the way I thought before. We are not safe. I should probably change my name to Ms. and make it clear where I stand given what’s at stake.

But screw it. Hillary had to change her name for people who couldn’t deal with her brand of feminism. And I don’t want to change my name for them. I am hopeful that having PRESIDENT Hillary Rodham Clinton in office for eight years will go a long way toward making a change. And for now, I’m writing here. And I am saying this as often as I possibly can. So listen up. I’m a Mrs. because I want to be. I’m also outspoken. And powerful.

I am a NASTY WOMAN when I need to be.

And I always, always vote. That, not changing my name, is how I plan to make my point of view known.

See you at the polls.